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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25934197">see all evil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyb3rl1f3/pseuds/Cyb3rl1f3'>Cyb3rl1f3</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anxiety, Depression, Hallucinations, Jon is sad, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self Harm, Tagging as I go, The Beholding, and martin, and tim - Freeform, au ig?, because i have nobody else to project on, jon has autism, jon is super gay, s3 jon but s1 martin and tim, sedatives, theyre all messes, theyre just kinda vibing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:28:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,847</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25934197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyb3rl1f3/pseuds/Cyb3rl1f3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“A hallucination is the perception of something that is not really present in the environment, as opposed to an illusion, which is the misinterpretation of something that is present. For example, seeing a cat where there is nothing is a hallucination, but mistaking your coat rack for a person is an illusion.” The Beholding supplied unhelpfully.</p>
<p>Jon screamed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>209</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>see all evil</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>jon simpin is back at it again with two boyfriends</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was his </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn</span>
  </em>
  <span> hand that set it off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The broken lump of melted skin had caught on something - a printed statement that scrapped against the palm of his ruined flesh in </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>the wrong way. His fried nerves screamed with a sudden and painful intensity that had him clutching the infernal thing to his chest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon was thankful the Archives were empty - had anyone been around to witness him double over and scrabble under his desk, he knew he’d never live it down. The only thing to break the silence is a slew of curses. Above him, the sturdy mahogany of his desk created ample shelter, but from what, he wasn't sure. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A habit he’d begun in his formative years. They’d taught him that you should hide under a table during an earthquake - and the logic of it stuck with him. Hide under a table, be safe from whatever was plaguing you. And so, he found himself under his desk. Back pressed into the dusty corner, neck strained and tucked between his knees, which splayed out at awkward angles. All skin and bones, as his assistants would say. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Being crammed into the tiny space only managed to hurl him back to his youth - of hours spent folded under the rickety writing desk in his room, a thing discovered on the sidewalk, battered and rusted. Hours of hyperventilating, digging his nails into his skin, smelling blood and sweat make their dance through the air. Hours of being terrified of </span>
  <em>
    <span>spiders. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The floor was cold under him as he sat, jarring his thoughts. The pain mounted increasingly, the burning sensation jutting forth and along his wrist, until his very veins seemed to boil. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>This was no spider. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was 10 pm. Another long day spent sorting and recording statements. Another night presumably spent curled into the rickety mat, eyes impossibly wide, pleading with The Beholding to allow him this one night of rest. It never relented, and his eyes would remain open and unblinking, until his body shut down.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon couldn't remember when he’d stopped blinking.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Lately, it had been…. hungry. Hungrier. The statements he read offered less satisfaction. He also noticed new things - an odd blend of bright green had settled into his rich brown eyes, like a snake coiling up a tree. His pupils were larger, never blinked, and his forehead started </span>
  <em>
    <span>itching</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like something was trying to bubble to the surface. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight seemed especially bad. His eyelids remained glued open as he stared at his hand - watched as a lick of flame suddenly spurted in his palm. Watched as it engulfed it fully. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>A hallucination is the perception of something that is not really present in the environment, as opposed to an illusion, which is the misinterpretation of something that is present. For example, seeing a cat where there is nothing is a hallucination, but mistaking your coat rack for a person is an illusion.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The Beholding supplied unhelpfully. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon screamed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The noise ricocheted from under the table and around the impossible vastness of the archives - streaking through the tunnels and hallways with ease. An acrid smell of burning flesh invaded his mouth and nose, while the smoke seemed to collect above him against the mahogany, pouring his lungs with his own suffering. The pain was unimaginable - almost worse than the first time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Traumatic events are often repressed by the victim, to the point of forgetting the actual experience. This can be seen often in childbirth - the parent delivering the child will withdraw from the memory of the pain, so that they can reproduce another time without fear or hesitance. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon slams his head in the wall. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Then something moved. Shifted - just beyond his vision, which was, albit, limited. His eyes were dark and fuzzy around the edges, and what little pinprick he could see, was a blurry mess. Something was reaching for him. Jon screamed a second time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Look look look you must look and see and experience it look for us feed us and let us see let us see let us see let us see let us see -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“-on?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“-llright?” </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“-o we do??”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>…….Voices. Two of them, panicked and uncertain, overlapping each other. Jon wants to </span>
  <em>
    <span>say something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, wants to beg them to leave, to chop off his hand, to pour water on him - </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything to stop the pain -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But the only thing that rips from his lungs is a rusty whimper, and the flames stop. With a jolt, he realized that whatever it was, was over. His unblinking eyes stare down at his hand, thrust into a fist as far as possible from his body. His hand looks the same. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martin. Martin and tim. Those are the faces he sees as he finally gains the energy to turn lightly, but even that simple motion sparked a crackle from his neck. How long had he been curled here, screaming his lungs out?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>One hour, seven minutes, and thirty four seconds. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They both give a simultaneous sigh as Jons unnerving multi-coloured eyes cast to them. Its Martin who kneels down first, eyes bloodshot with tears behind glasses knocked askew. Tim follows suit, but farther back. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon….?” Martin ventured gently - holding his hand out, palm up to face the underside of the table. A gentle offering, like you would for a wild animal. A dangerous animal. Jon doesnt think hes too far off. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He attempts to say something again, but the words curdle on his lips like old blood, and he becomes aware of a copery tinge in his mouth. Thankfully, Tim seemed to spot his expression, and the trashcan was shoved in front of him a fraction of a second before his stomach expunged itself. It was nothing but blood tinged bile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Five slices on the inside of your mouth - three on your cheek, two on your tongue. Likely caused by chewing and biting during a stressful situation. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He set the bucket not too far aside with only a meager look of distaste. Tim settled closer, now pressed against his co-workers side, both staring cautiously at Jon. Both silent. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When the words finally do expel from his lips, it sends a bout of shivers down his spine. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“H-hallucination.” Is all he can manage, and immediately Martin starts up that infernal cooing, the tone he always took with the Archives pet cat, Fuzzmuffin. Tim stands up and walks somewhere out of sight, only to return a moment later with a bottle of water. Graciously, amazingly cold, with drops of dew spooling down the side. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon takes it with shaky fingers and downs half the bottle, then pours the rest over his hand. It all slides off and pools to the ground, but he could think little of any better pleasure than the cool water against his phantom pains. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martin still has his hand outstretched, and Jons getting sick of the cold wooden planks beneath his feet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As if his hallucination wasn't enough, the second his good hand clasps Martin’s, The Beholding wedges into his mind. Like a splinter diving into his skin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Subject, Martin Blackwood, is blood type O-Positive, the most common bloodtype for Homosapians. Subject has a hook shaped scar on their wrist from an attack at age 16, where Subject was confronted by Alison Davey, who wielded a kitchen knife, and attacked them on the accusation that Subject was Homosexual, and was attempting to court her boyfriend. Subjects left hand has exactly fifteen freckles, eighty-seven strands of hair, two moles, five bitten off fingernails, and recently used Dove Nourishing Care Essential Hand Cream to moisturize Subject's skin. Dove Nourishing Care Essential Hand Cream was created using Aqua, Glycerin, Dimethicone, Stearic Acid, Caprylic/Capric Triglyceride, Glycol Stearate, PEG-100 Stearate, Petrolatum, Glyceryl Stearate, Caprylyl Glycol, Phenoxyethanol, Cetyl Alcohol, Acrylates/C10-30 Alkyl Acrylate Crosspolymer, Parfum, Triethanolamine, Disodium EDTA, Stearamide AMP, Carbomer, Hydroxystearic Acid, Alpha-Isomethyl Ionone, Benzyl Alcohol, Citronellol, Coumarin, Geraniol, Hexyl Cinnamal, Limonene, Linalool, CI 77891.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The only way he can pull himself out of the rabbits hole is by jerking back and slamming his head into the wall a second time. If the first hit hadn't made him bleed, this one had.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Surely enough, a slow trickle descends down his neck. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Andante writing desk, 30'' H x 42'' W x 19'' D, 30 LB, made of Rubberwood and Birch Veneer, hand-curated by Kelly Clarkson. Manufactured in China, assembly required. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Martin is crying, begging him to know what was happening, and Tim had disappeared again. From his vantage point under the table, it only takes a quick look to categorize every inch of space in the room. Every file and box was labeled and stored, every dusty corner, hidden spiderweb, Martin Blackwoods achingly adorable face. This was old news. The Beholding craved for more - screamed to be sated, like a child throwing a tantrum. Everything visible had already been observed hundreds of times. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Let us feed let us feed let us feed -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon opens his mouth to beg for a statement, yet little comes out but a spell of static and warped screams. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tim returns with a mug of liquid, and The Beholding demands it be observed from every possible angle. Every inch of the cup should be observed and categorized, all liquid drank, tasted and smelt and experienced. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon cant decide who was more in control anymore - himself, or his Patron. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Much like an infant, he reaches out with both hands to desperately grab at the mug, which was handed over quickly. Tim looked surprised at his intense and fervent interest. Its contents are lukewarm. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Earl Grey tea, bag reused multiple times, old kettle water, contains Organic black Tea, Organic and natural bergamot flavouring, Cornflowers, Natural tangerine flavouring. Additional substance added: Zaleplon, sold under the brand names Sonata among others, is a sedative-hypnotic, used to treat insomnia. It is a nonbenzodiazepine hypnotic from the pyrazolopyrimidine class. C17H15N5O, 305.341 g·mol−1, manufactured by King Pharmaceuticals and Gedeon Richter Plc. Discontinued in Canada but can be manufactured if a prescription is brought to a compounding pharmacy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jon chugs it. The Beholding encourages him almost excitedly, drinking in the fear that settled deep within his bones. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Can sedatives work on an avatar? How will they take effect? Will the side effects differ than usual? Will it take more doses? Less? Will -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Archivist lets out a broken sob, twines his hands into his hair, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>pulls</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The mug is discarded to the ground. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The pain does little to distract from the overwhelming flow of knowledge. The Beholdings voices overlap one another as streams of data cram into his brain - </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much too much too much -</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The exact materials the floor was created of, how many people walked upon it, their stories and history, the trees they were harvested from, the woodworkers who chopped them down, the manufacturing of the chainsaw; everything he didn't need to know was </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The door that withheld his knowledge had a crack going down the middle. Splintered right through. Water seeped down, pooling at his feet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Jonathan Sims collapses into his Assistant's arms, and the table is no longer needed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
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